


The Demons in Us All

by i_dream_of_eden



Series: Concrete Angels EPs [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Multi, Underage Drinking, Underage Drug Use, also junior-senior year high school was a hot mess for me personally so ymmv, also these guys are teenagers, angst might be a touch gratuitous but i promise there's a happy ending for everyone involved, goes without saying that a little melodrama goes without saying, i mean if you squint - Freeform, is that a thing?, my experiences are not universal, platonic fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-02 13:37:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16306163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_dream_of_eden/pseuds/i_dream_of_eden
Summary: In which a price is paid, questions are asked, and Damara considers making a deal with the devil. That is, the hellish vagaries of state-funded secondary and tertiary education. Metaphorically speaking, of course. At least, insomuch that she's already paid her dues and then some. But at what cost, then, is a hatchet buried? Are ghosts put to rest?





	1. A Lukewarm Awakening

**Author's Note:**

> I don't want to assume or promise anything, considering this bit takes place some time after the end of the Concrete Angels storyline, but it's been sitting in my WIPs for like, months, so... yeah.

When Damara opens her eyes to a near pitch-black room, the darkness surrounding her is almost as suffocating as the stale air. The chill of old sweat seeps into her skin, and makes her shudder despite the muggy heat still hanging heavy over her and the comforter twisted around her body. The cotton’s a ton against her legs, and makes her chest heave hard enough that drawing breath is an endeavor. But she manages it anyway, and sends the hair hanging over her face fluttering to molest her cheeks for a moment. But a moment is all it takes for her to groan and mutter a curse. 

The sticky feeling of her matted hair is uncomfortable, to say the least. And her shirt clinging to her body, rough like burlap, is even more so. But neither motivate her to get up, they only provide her with additional discomfort in her sweaty cocoon. She turns her face back onto her pillow and sighs, as if she could not look at her room, it might do something to help with the thoughts storming in her head. But trapped in her bed, she can only remember, every choice and every mistake made, that have lead her up to this point. 

It’s a list that begins with Rufioh. 

She flashes back to that fateful day with a grimace. When he’d first asked her out, she’d been filled with such feeling that she’d immediately said yes. She’d have called it a happy day - it was the culmination of weeks, of months, of tentative flirtation and wallflower flattery. And it had been followed by countless sweet smiles, sweet words, and sweet kisses. Countless sweet nothings, in the end. Her recollection sours as she recalls what pursuing that relationship cost her. Consigned to years of hell following, she lost her friends, her support, her peace of mind, her everything. His flakiness, only interest paid back in sweet nothings, never principal. His eventual infidelity, her faith thrown back into her face and a prison she’d only recently escaped. And again, her jaw tenses, her teeth grit. Her new freedom had been bought with blood, with vitriol, and with rage, visited upon someone not entirely deserving. Her ex is an asshole, through and through. He hadn’t ruined just their relationship, but Aranea’s as well. 

She sighs. She doesn’t know what to think of Aranea. She doesn’t especially care for the buxom blonde bimbo who fronts as a virginal wallflower in public but debauches herself with her friends in private. But it’s thanks to her that she’d realized how awful Rufioh was. And she still can’t help but feel guilty for what she’s done. She can’t deny that what she did lead to months of a hell she knew intimately for someone else. And that doesn’t sit well with her. It had been a gut reaction, yes. But it was her gut reaction, her choice, her behavior. There’s no getting around the simple fact that what she did that night broke Aranea and Meenah up. Though, to her credit, she made up for it, if only in part. She’d convinced Meenah to at least speak to her ex. And the rest was history - they’d gotten back together with the help of their friends. _Her_ friends. She smiles. It wasn’t as if the whole affair was a raw deal for her. Through her efforts at bringing them back together, she reconnected with old friends. She built new bridges to replace the ones she burned, in the time since because of the whole affair. But bridges, as fine as they are, still need to be crossed. And despite her best efforts, she can’t muster the energy to. Even Meulin and Horuss, a blessing on the curse of her life, aren’t enough.

Worse still, she’s all too aware of it. She’s aware of the way it becomes harder and harder to trust in her friends. To just let go of the mask. Part of it is that she’s a private person, she always has been. But another part, is fear, she understands. She’s afraid that what they see once it comes off will drive them away. She’s afraid that once her friends learn the truth of her, they’ll leave. That she’ll be alone, abandoned. And how real that possibility is, is enough to cool her blood and chill her through. It’s enough to send ice shooting through her veins so potent that she seizes in her bed and groans as something in her chest crashes against her ribs. And self-reflection, pondering how her life is a hot mess on account of some boy, makes that feeling worse. She spins out of control, trapped inside her own head. It’s a hot, dark place, not unlike her room, where even just lying in bed makes her chest twist, makes what feels like a void snarl and rip, tear at her insides. 

Hindsight is 20/20. That’s what she tells herself when the next breath she draws, painstakingly slow and even, doesn’t help. But all the same, she feels incredibly stupid that she’d let herself get so twisted up with him. Her ex did more than cost her her friends and break her heart. He’s done more than visit upon her the worst kind of hell she’s experienced in her adolescent life. All she’d worked for over the past few years - her scholarships, her singing, her plans for the future, all of it, nearly come undone in one swift stroke. After the disaster with Rufioh, her academics plummeted into dangerous territory. She failed two classes that semester, and just barely passed three. It’s a miracle that she didn’t completely wash out of the scholarship program, she can’t help but think. 

And while the rocky road to getting over her crimson-haired, manipulative lying shitstain of an ex-boyfriend brought her to new friends, both of whom were on the honor roll track, the responsibility of actually doing it fell to her. The responsibility of gathering up the jagged pieces of her life after _he_ so spectacularly made his exit fell to her. The responsibility to bring them all back together into some semblance of coherent worth being proud of, fell to her. She was strong enough to stand up on her own two feet, strong enough to push beyond and expand her limits and the limits of her body. She’s strong enough to claw herself out of the pit he left her in. She _has_ to be. 

Damara rises, then, and turns aching and heavy eyes onto the rest of her room, before shifting to the blinking blue light on her nightstand. She reaches for her phone, and the sudden flare of brightness that assaults her eyes as she unlocks it does nothing to help her aching head. But she can’t be bothered to care. Her gaze is fixed to the numbers, glowing white on the screen. And they tell her what she already knows. An hour and change at best has passed. An hour and change after she’d finally managed to force herself to bed. An hour and change of sleep, after hours of slogging through schoolwork and reading. And that’s if the time on her phone is accurate and she hasn’t in fact entered into some kind of sleep deprived fever dream. It’s a very real possibility, and she can’t help but laugh. 

All the same, her fingers tighten around the edges of the device in her hand as her laughter peters off. Her jaw tenses, and glass, metal, and plastic creaks under the force as she wills the urge to hurl her phone clear across the room back down. Indulging it is definitely not worth the money it would take to get the thing fixed, or replaced. And while the the clatter of it skittering across her nightstand does provide her with some small sense of satisfaction, it isn’t any consolation as her thoughts turn to the time. _An hour_. She’d gotten maybe an hour of fitful sleep after forcing herself to stay awake, to push through countless pages of text and take notes as detailed as she could manage. This night, anyway. 

Damara can only cradle her head in her hands, and rake cold fingers through the greasy tangle of her hair as darkness and heat bleeds into the deepest crevices of her mind. It’s been weeks since she’d gotten a proper night’s rest, or even more than a handful of blissful hours spent in dreamless slumber at a time. And she can feel it. The sum of countless consecutive nights of burning midnight oil at her desk is wearing her down. Her defiance against the desperate pleas of her body to rest is starting to take its toll. Such is the price she pays for naivete, her innocence, her stupidity. But it’s a toll she pays willingly, and a price she’d pay a hundred times over. 

It’s with that thought in mind that Damara shucks off her comforter completely, kicks at polyester and cotton until it falls to the floor with a dull whisper. And on aching feet, she stalks back over to her desk and her books as all thoughts of restful slumber are forcefully banished from her mind. It’s not as if she can actually go back to sleep now anyway, or wants to. Better to let her fatigue run its course than face another night alone with her thoughts. Her chest seizes at the memory. No, definitely not. Not when the last time she’d done so left her hollowed out and empty, her world and her heart swirling down the drain like so much shit down the toilet. That’s why she throws on a jacket, pops in her headphones, and pours out the last dregs of hours-old instant coffee into a mostly-clean mug before gathering up her notes. And then, she makes her way out to the terrace to pass the rest of the night, floating on a wave of caffeine and nicotine, buried in her books.  



	2. My Trials Are My Friends

A low grumble passes Damara’s lips as she holds her hand over her eyes. The sun shines obnoxiously bright above her, well in the middle of the sky now, burning her thighs even through her jeans. She’s sweating like a stuck pig for the heat, soaking through the only clean shirt she has left, and worse still, the migraine making a mess of her head is so potent she can almost taste it on the back of her tongue like bile. She can’t help but curse her past self for choosing to stumble through this week’s reading over a few hours of dreamless sleep. Only because the throbbing ache behind her eyes is debilitating enough that even just being in daylight makes it that much worse. That, and certainly not the too-familiar tightness in her chest as she languishes under the concerned stares of her friends. She heaves a soft sigh as their voices cut through the haze.

“You actually got enough sleep last night, right?” Meulin asks her, for what must be the umpteenth time in the past hour. The question is fraught with worry that makes something in her chest lurch, and heat of a different kind begins to creep up the back of her neck. But it’s just as unpleasant.

“Yeah.” She answers, distracted. 

She spent what time was left to her after waking from her brief and fitful nap trying to get through her reading, but trying’s the operative word. She was lucky enough that even the first few pages of material she’d covered stuck in her addled brain. The rest blur together into a morass of senseless diagrams and words running over in the back of her head. And worse still, her notes from the night previous are just barely legible. Like so much else in her life as of late, her attempt at getting through her reading amounted to little more than a hot mess. But Meulin doesn’t need to know that. Her fingers rake through her hair again, the motion almost second nature now as she tries to keep herself from making it obvious that she’s avoiding meeting her friend’s eyes. But Damara can feel the way Meulin’s brow furrows, the way her gaze lingers on her through the fall of her hair. 

“Damara.” 

“I did. I swear did.” She continues, even as her hands fall away and she turns to face Meulin with a crooked smile that feels forced even in her near-delirium. She had gotten enough rest, in so many words. The odd hour she’d spent in a fugue beneath the shower head this morning had to count for something, considering she was out and about and… out to begin with. And while Meulin’s unwavering expression does make her own falter for a moment, she gently nudges her friend’s shoulder and her smile softens enough that it feels real. 

“I only look like shit because I actually slept in and didn’t have time to do my hair.” Damara reassures her with another nudge. “Or my makeup. But that’s whatever.”

“Damara.” 

Her voice quiets at the sound of her name. Despite her sleep-deprived state, she doesn’t miss the concern, underpinning the words he left unsaid. Not that dulcet tone, so thick with care that her stomach ties itself into knots so like the way it did _that_ night. His words, the way he says them, voiceless, and how she doesn’t deserve them at all, is why, in addition to looking like the crusted edge of a well-used plunger, she now feels like it, too. The kindness her friends are trying to impress on her wars against the guilt filling the gaping hole in her chest. And for a long moment, it’s a tug of war in her head. All the same, she keeps that lopsided smile in place.

“Horuss, come on. You know me.” Damara insists as she turns to him and her hands wander away. “I’m a vain bitch. I’d never willingly miss out on an opportunity to spend some time in front of a mirror and-”

It’s then that Horuss reaches out, takes a hold of her hands and puts an end to her rambling, and she looks down. She’s holding a cigarette, loose between her fingers and halfway to her lips. And she has a lighter, poised to spark in the other. She falls silent, then, well and truly lost for words as her hands fall gracelessly back into her lap. Her friend’s voice is soft, but like glass in her ears. Something she doesn’t care to name cuts its way through her chest, hot and dark, and she tenses. 

“We’ve talked about this.”

“What, I can’t even have a smoke every now and then-”

“You said you’d quit.” Horuss replies.

She’s shaking her head before she can stop herself. Kindness she doesn’t deserve, not yet. Not when everything in her life what had fallen apart hasn’t been put back together by her own hands. Not when she isn’t even strong enough to kick the one habit she swore to her friends she would. And besides, the taste of caffeine on her tongue, nicotine on her lips, are the only things keeping her from plunging into the deep end, nowadays. A few bad habits were a negligible price to pay in exchange for getting her life back in order, weren’t they?

“I did.” She returns flatly. “And yeah, sure I… have one. Occasionally. But it’s not like-”

“You were clean for months, Damara.” Meulin points out as she gently wrests the lighter out of her hands. 

Again that hot dark something flares in her at the touch, and sees her throat flutter for breath that won’t come. But it’s lost to the prickling in her eyes that bleeds down into her chest as she rages against the tears, threatening to fall and ruin her tenuous composure. _Not now not now not now not-_

“What is this, some kind of fucking intervention?” She bites out, more harshly than she means to. And immediately she hates herself for doing so. Again, she feels more than sees the way Meulin recoils just the littlest bit as though struck, and the way Horuss’ brow furrows in disapproval. Red creeps in to color the world around her as a fog falls over her thoughts, and it’s only distantly that she hears her friends speak. Each word she catches through the static between her ears is another gut-wrenching thing that makes her want to snatch her lighter back and spark up that cigarette even more.

“Does it need to be?” Horrus wonders aloud, tone too tactless for her preference. Meulin’s is no better. It’s considerate, carefully chosen, compassionate. _Patronizing_ , treating her as if she were spun glass. Both do little to quench the fire flaring up in her chest, nor the tension and heat climbing up into her throat. And it isn’t helped when her friends launch into an argument, _over_ her and over _her. Again._

“Horuss, come on. Don’t put it like that, okay?”

“Then how am I supposed to put it? Am I supposed to just let her throw away months of work and effort because she feels sorry enough for herself-”

“Horuss!”

“You can’t just always take her side when-”

“I’m asking you to stop being such a… such a dingus because you know what’s going on with her right now. I’m not taking anybody’s side.”

“You’re literally taking her side right now. And I am not being a... dingus. I’m saying what I’m saying because it needs to be said-”

“Not the way you’re saying it!”

“Then how should I-”

“Enough!” Damara cuts in, and winces. Even her own voice, strained and almost breathless, is too loud for her to bear. A hiss of pain passes her lips as her head lurches back into her hands. The cigarette between her fingers tumbles away as she delicately kneads her temples. A token attempt to stifle the full-blown skull-splitting ache behind her eyes, it does little. Her voice is raw and hoarse, free of its forced levity when she next speaks. “God fucking hell, enough. You guys aren’t my parents so just...” The rest of her words trail off, giving way to mirthless and hollow laughter. _Broken laughter_. 

Her throat seizes. If she was being completely honest with herself, her friends have been more like parents to her in the past few months than her own parents have been in years. And as far as her life as of late is concerned, she’s made peace with their absence. Or at least, her father’s. Her mother has the decency to call every now and then, and actually ask about how she’s doing. It’s little consolation, though. But that’s on her, considering how little she tells the woman. And she laughs again. Her own parents are ignorant to the trials and tribulations that have thrown her life into spectacular disarray, and her friends are unaware of the push-pull in her head. And though she’s flanked on both sides by people who have shown her kindness and compassion without condition, warmth, she is cold between them. _Alone_. Prickling heat turns to moisture gathering on her lashes despite her best efforts, and she begins to sway as the color drains from her vision. Darkness takes its place as her heart throbs in her ears like thunder.

“Just stop. Give it a rest. Give me a rest..”

She swoons, and finds herself falling into Meulin’s lap as her exhaustion finally catches up to her. And besieged by the pounding behind her eyes, between her ears, since she'd woken up in the morning, all her will, her defiance, can only crumble to nothing. The last thing she hears as oblivion finally takes her, is her name, a plaintive cry lost to the rising storm in her head.


	3. Winning Isn't the End of All Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy endings abound if you squint hard enough

Damara stands outside and alone, as she so often does nowadays. She breathes, slow and steady. Her head is clear of the fog of fatigue, and she’s gotten more rest in the past few days than she has in weeks. There’s… it isn't peace in her heart, exactly. But the frenzy of pulling all nighters and zombiying through the day are behind her, and her efforts have finally paid off. Her scholarship status is no longer in the red, and her grades are even on the rise. And she’s finally re-earned her eligibility to participate in extracurriculars. She’d even been contacted by a representative of English Records. A silver-haired man, with eyes an eerie but striking shade of green, had left his card with her in the hopes that she’d sign on, even just as a trial some, some odd few days ago. And even looking back, she can’t help but reel. She’s on the verge of successfully wrapping up her high school years and moving on to singing professionally. Though there’s still the matter of her suspension, with the end of the month coming up soon, so too is her probation. Everything is going her way, and the mess of last semester has finally been put to rest. But, there’s something that isn't quite right. Something in the back of her mind insists that she not relax just yet, and she can’t understand why. 

She can’t understand why, when the moment she finds herself in is singular, and the view is breathtaking. She’s looking out over a city set ablaze by the setting sun. It’s gorgeous, the way light plays off the countless windows in the distance, impossibly brilliant. A glittering sea of gleaming metal, glass, and concrete stretches to the horizon. The buildings cast shadows that contrast sharply against all the gold, vivid and deep, over the innumerable nameless strangers going about their business. The wind plays at the errant wisps of her hair and caresses her face, almost brisk against her skin even through the muggy summer heat. But it doesn’t move her in the slightest. None of it does, doesn’t steal her breath away like it should. And her chest heaves for another reason, tendrils of acrid smoke rising and twisting from the thing loosely held between her fingers. She’s given up all pretense at kicking her habit, and she takes another drag of her cigarette. The faint velvet haze at the edges of her vision, a spell woven by the half-empty cup at her feet, is starting to waver against the creeping void in her center. 

She’d go back for a refill, but the din of the party going on back inside is loud. It’s too loud. It’s a droning static that she wishes she could just drown in, as she so often had before. But she can’t. Something keeps her rooted to the spot, an island all by her lonesome. Something numbs her through, cold creeping into her limbs as the seconds pass by. And she can feel each one, inimitably, intimately, one less moment and one less grain of sand in her hourglass. She can feel the eyes, trained on her form and watching. Her friends, in all their concern and worry, cast by the wayside in this moment. She sighs as a familiar heaviness settles in her chest. They’ve done so much for her, seen her through her many trials and tribulations. 

From Rufioh, to Aranea and Meenah, to her own traitorous mind, Meulin and Horuss have done so much for her. And she feels a traitor, unable to reciprocate the effort. But they don’t need more to worry about. Better to pay back what she can and keep her doubts to herself. Especially when all she can manage in this moment is to watch the tendrils of smoke coming off her cigarette as they twist higher and higher, until they disappear completely. A new wish rises in her heart, to be like the smoke, to be free. Of her obligations, of her fears and insecurities, her history, of it all. She wants to be free of the cage her life has become, if only for a moment. A brief, sweet, fleeting moment. Or maybe an eternity. Either or.

It’s with that thought in mind that she whiles away the seconds, the clock inside her ticking down as she burns her cigarette down to a stub and puts it out at her feet, before reluctantly stepping back inside. And immediately, her mind fogs back up again. It’s more to do with the smell than anything else. She needed the fresh air, considering how everything inside reeks of stale beer and sweat. And a familiar something cloys at her nose. But as far as she can see, no one’s batting an eye. What she does see, though, are bodies, writhing to the music that thunders in between her ears, and just occupying space. There are also familiar faces here. 

Meulin’s sitting in the corner, chattering away with her old friends. Her chest twists at the way Porrim makes her laugh with ease, and how she accepts Latula’s elbow gently digging into her side with a smile. Meenah, Mituna and Kankri are talking in another alcove. Or rather, Meenah and Kankri are talking, and Mituna’s just watching everything with a goofy grin. She can only imagine what’s going on between them, and can’t be bothered to spare the energy to. Cronus and Horuss are in the kitchen surrounded on all sides by other partygoers, chanting what seems to be Horuss’ name. And when she takes a closer look, she can’t help but laugh out loud. Her friend is still the prim, stick-and-something-else-up-his-ass she’s known him to be, coolly sipping at a shot glass. Cronus, on the other hand, is almost sprawled across the counter top, and she can see why. Between them are a row of little glasses and a very big, very empty bottle. It’s a drinking contest of some kind, and it’s abundantly clear who’s winning. She has half a mind to join in on the festivities, play fawning cheerleader to Horuss’ star quarterback even if he wouldn’t exactly appreciate it in light of their history. But a familiar flash of blonde in the corner of her eye stops her in her tracks. 

_Aranea._

Her chest twists with dark heat, her jaw clenches, and her hands curl into fists fast against her sides. Aranea, her two-faced, buxom, once-nemesis. Aranea, the lying slut who stole Rufioh away from her. Aranea, pretentious and holier-than-thou, a whore all the same who spread her legs, stole her boyfriend, and connived her way into Horuss and Meulin’s good graces. Aranea, the bitch who turned the school against her, turned the administration against her. Her vision bleeds red as the dark heat in her chest crests, venom and fire lashes against her ribs. But she breathes, and remembers what’s happened since the incident.

Aranea, who kept her from leaping back into her shithead ex’s arms. Aranea, who revealed Rufioh for the lying, cheating asshole he was. Aranea, who never bore her any ill will even after what she did. Aranea, who struggled and scraped together the broken pieces of her life after the Incident. Aranea, who did all that and forged on, _without_ support from her friends. Her only friends. A kindred spirit with whom she’s shared a hell she’d not wish on anyone. She breathes again, lets the tension bleed out of her limbs, her jaw loosen, and her fingers uncurl.

It wasn’t Aranea who brought down the full power of the school administration down on her head after her fight with Meenah. She did that herself. And the poisonous person she became, full of rage and fury, of hatred, didn’t help in the least with her reputation. It wasn’t Aranea who seduced her shithead ex even if she did sleep with him. Hell, Horuss was the same, lead astray and into Rufioh’s bed under false pretenses. And she’s forgiven him for it, though there wasn’t anything to forgive. And just like Horuss, Aranea cut things off with Rufioh after learning the truth. And Meulin, after learning of her relationship with Meenah, dropped the silent treatment in favor of protective cousin. And Aranea, to no one’s surprise, passed her friend’s test with flying colours. She has no reason to hate the girl, not in good conscience. But, she has every reason to shove off the sleazy jackhole backing her into the corner, and Damara does exactly that. And when she does manage to send him packing and get a good look at her, face all scrunched up and her eyes tightly shut, she can’t help but continue where he left off, if only in good fun.

“What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this all on your own?” Damara drawls as she comes close, in her best impression of a basic teenage boy.

“Look, for the last time, I’ve got a-” Aranea’s words cut off as their eyes meet, and she flusters for all of a moment before she recovers her composure. But it’s a moment enough, and Damara grins wickedly. “Oh! Damara, um… hi.”

“I see you learned your lesson well.”

Aranea nods, and her smile is sheepish as she speaks. “..yeah, definitely. Not making that mistake again.”

“Good. Doesn’t answer my question though.” At that, Aranea tilts her head in question, and she elaborates.

“What are you doing here on your own?” Damara asks again, and nods in Meenah’s general direction. “I figured you’d be with your… friends.”

“I… I wasn’t alone. Just… I was with Meenah earlier. Then she saw Kankri and pulled him off somewhere to have a little chat, and, well...” 

When Aranea lowers her gaze and sighs, she carefully backs away. She crosses her arms over her chest, and joins Aranea on the the wall, before motioning for her to continue. The girl looks over her shoulder, to where Meenah and Kankri are still in the middle of a surprisingly heated conversation. She catches the way Aranea’s eyes flash to Meulin and Porrim, and then to Horuss in the kitchen. 

“The rest is history.” she finishes. And when she smiles this time, it’s wistful, almost distant. Sad. There’s a strange cast over her eyes, a fog over sea blue, and the crescent of her lips makes her think of moonlit oceans in the dead of night. A low chill sweeps through her at the sight. Aranea looks lost. _Alone_.

It is history. Very recent, at best an hour ago recent - her history in someone else. and it’s strange to see. Aranea isn’t _alone_ , she’s _lonely_. And her chest throbs in a commiserating impulse.

“What about your boyfriend?” Damara asks tentatively.

Just like that, Aranea’s smile disappears. “I beg your pardon?”

She gestures to the kitchen, and to where the subject of their conversation is still exactly where she last saw him, sprawled across the countertop. Although this time he isn’t face down in a puddle of his own drool, at least. He’s got a glass in his hands, and it looks like he’s trying his utmost to bring it to his lips. 

“Cronus.” Damara begins. “Aren’t you and he and…” Her words trail off as she ticks off the rest of the blonde’s friends on her fingers and gestures to them. Aranea shakes her head, and she’s quick to clarify.

“Ohh! No, um, Cronus and I are just friends. It’s Porrim and Meenah that I… well, you know.” 

Again that sheepish smile. But it’s colored by something else. Her cheeks are flushing pink, and Damara suddenly understands why Rufioh singled her out, all those months ago. That, and the way she smiles, unguarded, honest, and sincere. It’s frustrating, in the most frustrating way. She… she’s never cared for how Aranea fronts as the ingenue, and she still doesn’t. But in close proximity, watching her once-nemesis smile and fluster and bat her eyelashes with unnerving efficacy, that’s changing despite her best efforts. Aranea continues at her silence. 

“You can’t really separate one from the other so, I guess he’s part of… what we have going on, too.”

“That…” Damara’s brow furrows, and her mouth quirks as she steps a touch back. “I don’t know if I should feel sorry for him or for you.”

“Neither of us, to be honest.” Aranea replies. “We get along pretty well as friends. And we’ve both decided not to, um, let sex into that. Same with Meenah.”

“So why even have him be a part of it if he isn’t getting any?” She asks. And when Aranea’s response is a titter too girlish to be genuine, and a deceptively carefree smile, Damara bristles. “What’s so funny?” She bites back. Aranea shrugs, and reposes against the wall, unbothered.

“Nothing. It’s… It’s just… I asked that him that same question months ago.” 

Again, Damara gestures for her to elaborate. “And?”

“Shoe’s on the other foot, I guess. The answer he gave me back then… it’s the same one I’d give now.“ Aranea explains.

“Which is?” she prompts.

“We’re not just friends, but we aren’t, um…” the blonde blushes again. This time though, she’s having none of it, even if it does make for a very pretty picture.

“You don’t fuck.” Damara supplies flatly.

“That’s… a very eloquent way to put it, yes.” Aranea smiles, and laughs. It’s the same girlish titter, the same earnest curl of her lips, and Damara can’t help but wonder if her laugh is actually like that, all soft and melodic. Like bells in the spring wind, if she were inclined to wax poetic. Which she _isn’t_.

“He sounds like a doormat.” 

“It.. yeah, he is a bit of a… a softy. Aranea corrects her. That wistfulness returns as she continues. “But he… likes what we are, how we are. Our very own mother hen.”

At that, Damara goes and draws a complete blank. The thought of Cronus, flawlessly disheveled and hopelessly cool, perfectly pretentious, playing doting den mother to a rabble of hardass teenage girls is entirely too much information for her to know what to do with. And the best she can manage is a hesitant nod, an awkward cough to clear the air. 

“I... I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

“Probably for the best.” Aranea returns with another smile. And its effect is devastating enough that her words draw on into flustered silence. “So, how are you?”

“Hm?”

“How are you liking the party? Did you need another drink? Or is the cooler empty again? I could have sworn I stocked it up-”

“It’s fine. The party’s… fine.” 

“Oh… good..?”

Damara nods. “Mm.” 

“What about you?” Aranea asks, and she’s taken aback by the question.

“What?” 

“Are you fine?” 

At that, Damara scoffs, rakes her fingers through her hair, and strikes a pose. With one booted foot against the wall, and her casual lean, she’s the very image of too cool for school. Nevermind that up until just a few weeks ago, she’s been shatting herself apart trying to make up her grades. Details, details. She puts on her best bad girl smirk.

“Hell yeah I’m fine. Just look at me.”

“Ok, very fair point. But that’s not what I mean and you know it.” Again, Aranea inflicts that damn smile on her, and it’s her turn to fluster helplessly beneath the blonde’s stare. She grumbles and averts her eyes, and sighs as Aranea presses the issue. And when the girl fixes her with an inquisitive look, she can’t help but shy away. It’s entirely too earnest for her to be comfortable with.

“...how are you, Damara? Really?”

Aranea’s voice is cotton soft, and silk against her ears. Not glass, and yet all the same, for how sincere she seems to mean it, the question stuns Damara into silence.

“...Why do you care?” she asks, after a moment.

“Well, you’re talking to me, of all people. And given our… history, I figure that if you’re coming to me, then something’s definitely-”

“I don’t hate you, okay?” Damara cuts in with a roll of her eyes. She drops her posture and slumps against the wall, rakes her fingers through her hair again if only because it’s something to keep her suddenly twitchy hands busy. “I mean, fucking my boyf… my ex was definitely a shitty thing to do, that I won’t argue. But I’m glad to be rid of him.” She can’t help but cringe at those words. _Her ex_. As though Rufioh’s still hers, or that she still even wants his bottle-cherry haired ass. It’s the furthest thing from the truth and she can’t help but curse her slip.

“But…?” Aranea prompts gently.

Too gently. It’s Meulin all over again, mincing words and soft tones as though she were spun glass. _Fragile_. She is anything but. Still she stiffens, and fails to stop the word vomit from coming out. She fixes Aranea with a hard stare.

“...but nothing, ok? What, I can’t make small talk at a party where almost everyone else I know’s already off doing their own thing? It’s not like my friends left me high and dry to fend for myself, unlike _some_ people.” Her eyes narrow Aranea’s way, and she scoffs, averting her gaze. The hypocrisy is bitter, and it feels like she’s dragging skeletons out of a closet best left undisturbed for civility’s sake. But she continues all the same. “Besides, I just needed to step outside. Get some air. Because it reeks in here.” 

“Damara.” 

She shrugs, cool as can be. Except she isn’t. Even in the privacy of their conversation, with everyone just milling about, the room suddenly feels ten times smaller. She feels trapped in a space the size of a broom closet with the girl who ruined her relationship, and _no Aranea didn’t ruin her relationship, just shed light in places she’d been too afraid to do so herself_. Her fists clench, stiffness creeps back into her limbs unimpeded as the seconds and her words draw on. And worse still, there’s a new feeling, a warm featherlight touch on her insides she’s come to associate with Meulin, with _Horuss_ , takes her for a sharp turn. But she persists, and wills the feeling down, to mixed success.

“And yeah. I could probably smoke out at least half of these assholes if I wanted to. I just didn’t feel like getting high right now.” 

The word vomit continues, regardless. No success, and she’s lying through her teeth. More than anything right now, she wants to crash into the nearest throng toking up and take a few hits herself. And when Aranea steps away, the warm feeling vanishes, replaced by cool disappointment. She shakes her head.

“God, I need a drink. I am… not drunk enough for this. I’m-”

“Damara?” 

“What?!” She whirls on Aranea when the girl returns, but stills as an ice cold cola is pushed into her hand. Warmth bleeds back into her cheeks, and heat creeps up the back of her neck again as she takes the drink with both hands. “Oh. Um, thanks.”

Aranea says nothing as she takes her place back on the wall, just nods and lets the silence between them hang amiable and easy while Damara sips at her coke. After a moment, though, she speaks, all open honesty and unassuming smiles. Unguarded, carefree, genuine, when their eyes meet again. And again, Damara flusters. 

“I don’t do too well with parties like this either. You know, where you at best know maybe half the people attending and everyone else are just… strangers.”

“We’re not exactly friends.” She points out.

“Maybe. But… we’re not exactly rank strangers, either.” Aranea returns. “And…”

“What?”

The blonde sighs, half-smiles. “Meulin told me. Well, more like Meulin told Porrim and Latula and I happened to be in the room when she said it.”

She frowns. “Said what?”

“Your probation. It ends with the month, right?”

She nods at that.

“And you got your scholarship back. Congratulations.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“And signing back up with choir, too. that’s-”

Damara cuts her off, then, stares her dead in the eye. She’s struggling to keep her fingers from tightening around the can in her hand because if she does, it’s going to spill over, stain the carpet. And the last thing she wants to do is cause a scene like last time. Because that went so well.

“Look.”

“Mm?”

“I don’t need your pity, ok?” She growls. 

At that, Aranea’s smile doesn’t exactly vanish. But there’s something different about the curl of her lips that eases her rising hackles. No more forced levity, just openness and honesty. Vulnerability that takes her off guard and makes her chest twist all the same _again_ for what must be the umpteenth time in so many minutes.

“I know you don’t.” Aranea replies after a moment. Then, the girl meets her gaze, steady and unwavering. “And it isn’t pity. I mean that. What you did, how much you accomplished after… after him. After everything. It takes strength to move past what happened.” 

Damara heaves a sigh, draws a hand over her face because running her fingers through her hair is too obvious a nervous tic at this point. “What… what is the point of this?”

“I just wanted to say… that you’re a lot stronger than you give yourself credit for, Damara. And I… I find that really admirable.”

At that, Damara reels. It’s strange to think about, that those words are coming from someone whose significant other she nearly beat into a bloody pulp. There should be resentment there, she can't help but think, some acrimony for the fact. But there is none. Aranea’s been nothing but warm and open with her, even her spotty past with Meenah accounted for. And it isn’t as if the girl beside her has been without her own struggles, her own sordid history. The hot crock of shit that spilled all over her life what she had a hand in spilling. And… Aranea’s not without successes of her own she can claim. Damara knows all too well just what the girl by her side went through. She got a bleeding earful of it courtesy of Kankri. Several, even. Aranea’s not without a sob story, without a despair spot all to her own. 

As for her own self, Damara has fought, has scraped and clawed her way back to normalcy and peace by the thinnest grace. She had her friends to lean on, through it all. And for that she’s endlessly grateful even if she can’t pay it back. But Aranea... her so-called friends abandoned her in her time of need and left her after the debacle of the Incident. She had no one. And despite the fact, she fought all the same. Aranea struggled through the rumors, the solitude, and the loneliness to maintain not only her scholarship, but her academic standing, her position on the debate team, and who knows what else. All on her own. That’s the strength of the girl by her side. And if said girl’s thinking of her as someone to admire for doing the exact same thing, and with help, no less, Damara can’t help but think someone somewhere, a divine shithead in all likelihood, is pissing himself laughing. And she won’t let Aranea be laughed at.

“Don’t sell yourself short.” she begins. “You’re… you’re plenty strong too. Stronger, even.”

“I’m really not-”

Damara shakes her head, looks over as Aranea turns away. And she can see it, the doubt written in every line of her face. “Kankri told me.” she explains. “Sort of like how Meulin told you. Or you overheard her say. You did a better job of not falling to pieces after… After what happened with Rufioh. I mean the rumors? The shit people said?”

That does catch Aranea’s attention, and she looks over. 

“What..”

“That you… that you finally ‘saw the light’. Dumped the biggest bitch on campus and decided to give guys a chance. Not my words, mind you.” 

A snort greets that bit, and Damara’s eyes flash to Aranea’s face. She’s wearing a smile a touch too crooked still, but it’s something. She sighs. 

“Or that things exploded. With Meenah. That you got tossed out like yesterday’s trash for some reason or other.” Aranea’s smile falls again, and she nudges the girl’s shoulder by way of apology. 

“Not good with words. Sorry.” she offers sheepishly. At Aranea’s nod, she continues. “But what I’m trying to get at is… all that, all the reminders, on top of what actually happened… couldn’t have been easy to deal with. Much less on your own. And I… I had help.” 

She casts a glance to her friends, from Horuss gently trying to wake Cronus, to Meulin cackling without care with Porrim and Latula. And her chest _doesn’t_ twist at the sight this time. No cold creeps through her veins and stiffens her limbs as she watches her friends have fun without her. Her friends are happy. And the darkness, the poisonous heat rearing its head all of a few minutes ago, doesn’t come this time, but warmth does. It glows and radiates, suffuses every fiber of her viscera, because after Rufioh, after Meulin’s own shithead ex, after everything they’ve been through, her cobbled-together family deserves to be happy. And so too does the girl beside her, watching her with what she hopes is curiosity and not resentment. 

“Practice what you preach.” she declares, after a long silence. “Or… believe what you say and apply it to yourself.” She turns back to Aranea, and hands her a tissue to blot away the tears she’s almost sure are coming. And when the blonde does take it, blows her nose, wads it up and offers her a smile less crooked and much warmer in turn, Damara more than flusters this time. Her cheeks heat up until her face feels like it’s glowing, and in all likelihood probably is. 

“N... not because I’m… I’m not just saying that because I’m trying to lose this ‘who deserves more pity’ contest but… Because it isn’t and shouldn’t be a contest. And you’re stronger than you give yourself credit for too… and.. yeah..!”

And just like that, warmth becomes fire flaring up the back of her neck. And the gentle thrum in her stomach becomes a knot violently twisting at her insides _because she should know when to shut up and yet-_

“Thanks.”

Damara breathes, looks to the girl beside her. Aranea is still smiling, actually smiling, even if she is sniffling a little bit and her eyes are faintly red and puffy. It’s brilliant and gleaming, the curl of her lips glows, warm and sweet, and displaces the tugging and violent thrashing in her chest. And she can’t help but wonder how she could ever have hated this girl smiling so sincerely at her.

“I’m-”

“Excuse me, Aranea?”

Damara stills, and her words trail off at the new arrival. Her eyes roll before she can stop herself when she sees the him, but her brow furrows at the sight of Horuss bracing up a familiar figure. Aranea just gasps as the two boys come closer.

“Oh my god, what happened?” she asks as she closes the distance.

“We.. there was a... situation, in the kitchen..” Horuss begins tentatively, maneuvering Cronus’ limp form up against the wall. “Involving some alcohol and-”

“Horuss and your not-boyfriend were having a drinking contest.” Damara explains. And Aranea just sighs when Cronus lurches forward, though she does roll her eyes when he buries his face in her chest and promptly starts drooling.

“... and just how much did he have to drink, exactly?”

Horuss fidgets, and Damara answers for him again.

“It was a bottle between them. I dunno how much there was before they got started, but last I saw, it was empty.” At that, Aranea sighs again as she cradles her friend’s lolling head.

“Ok, no more drinking games for you…”

“No… no arguments from me there.” Cronus finally replies, words well slurred. “Here.. wherever. God if I know..” It takes him all of a moment to realize just what exactly he’s up to his eyes in, though. And he immediately, if gracelessly, stumbles back, offering Aranea murmured and flustered apologies. And then, Damara can’t help but think it’s true, what the girl said before. 

She watches Cronus fluster and fret even as Aranea gingerly props him up against the wall. The display is entirely too awkward for anything more than friendship to exist between them. Or rather, the care he takes in assuring her and making sure she’s ok despite his own drunkenness is too instinctive, offered without restraint. It’s abundantly clear that though they’re close enough that Aranea immediately forgives his inadvertent motorboating, it isn’t by the way of the mundane intimacy between lovers. And she can’t help but draw a comparison between the two in front of her and best girlfriends. The kind of friends who, after a night of hitting up the clubs, hold each other’s hair back while puking into toilets. More than likely, that’s probably how Cronus feels just about now, and she laughs. 

“Do you need me to fetch Porrim?” Aranea asks as she steadies him. He shakes his head, though.

“S’okay. M’gonna be… ok. Just need a minute. Or two.”

“Or a few.” Horuss gently interjects. “He was really pounding me against… Back.. I mean, the, um, fun… juice?” 

At that, and the way Aranea fixes her friend with a dubious smile, Damara shakes her head. And whether she should watch this disaster unfold or intervene before it gets worse is made a momentous decision, but Cronus beats her to the punch.

“Phrasing, dude.” the boy quips as he runs a hand through his hair, all casual dishevelment and practised ease.

“Ah. yes, well…”

“Seriously. Would not mind making what… that. A reality instead of an innuendo, but buy me a drink first.” Cronus returns with a smirk. It’s dashingly wicked even despite his considerable inebriation, and Damara feels the sudden heat radiating off of her friend enough that she has to cough to dispel the mounting awkward atmosphere.

“Fun juice. I see.” Aranea cuts in dryly. Her eyes flit from Horuss, then to Cronus. “Was it extra strength fun juice or your average wheat-flavored fun juice?”

“I’m going to go with extra strength.” Damara supplies, then gestures to the kitchen island and the proverbial smoking gun. They didn’t think to toss out the bottle from before, nor clean up the shotglasses. And Aranea mutters under her breath at the sight. Her face falls into her hands for a brief moment, before she fixes Cronus with a firm stare. He just looks at her, all careless smiles and easy, if empty reassurances. But Aranea doesn’t relent, even when he makes grabby hands at Horuss.

“That’s it. No more fun juice for you. I’m locking up all the fun juice until you learn how to have fun without fun juice.” She grumbles as she gently manhandles him back onto the wall. Then Aranea looks to her. “I’m not entirely sure about your friend, but _this_ one definitely doesn’t need another drink.”

“Mmh… water..?”

She turns back to Cronus. “... _only_ water. Got it?” 

A nod, and the boy slumps off the wall and stumbles his way back to the kitchen. And Aranea can’t help but follow, steadying him as his first steps veer him towards the cooler in the corner packed to the brim with ice and beer. When the girl shoots her and Horuss apologetic look, he nods, and Damara shoos the pair off in Porrim’s direction before heading back out to the patio. She feels more than sees how Horuss follows, and a strange silence comes to hang between them as she tosses back the rest of her Coke, almost flat as it goes down her throat. 

“You smell like a barroom.” He announces to no one in particular. Damara just laughs, short and soft.

“Mm, not taking that from someone who smells like the carpet under a keg stand.” She returns breezily as she contemplates the can in her hands. It’s lukewarm now, for all the time that’s passed since it was first pressed into her hands. 

Horuss grins, and nods. “Fair play. But I doubt any responsible host would set up a keg stand on carpet.” He returns. She shrugs, and he looks over. His friend’s brow is furrowed in thought and her eyes are fixed on a point somewhere in the distance, pensive. He can’t help but speak up, then. “Are you ok?”

Again, Damara shrugs as her thoughts turn. A shaky breath passes her lips, and the can in her hands falls away as she rakes her fingers through her hair. All of half an hour spent in close proximity with Aranea, and already she’s set on burying the hatchet she kept close to her heart for the better part of months. A wistful expression breaks out across her face as strange feeling rises within her. No. Not… nothing is rising, exactly. But there’s a knot in her chest that’s been sitting there for so long she’s become inured to its presence, and it’s coming loose. A weight, much the same, is falling from her shoulders in this moment. Aranea’s not entirely blameless for what happened before, that much hasn’t and can’t be changed. She made the choice to sleep with Rufioh, to make that first contact. But it’s the same with her - Damara chose to vent her rage, inflict it on the blonde and her partner. And since the incident, they’ve both paid their dues, the prices of the decisions they’d made. They’ve moved on and past their shared sordid histories, best they can. She understands that now. Holding on to the grudge, to the weight and the knot, the enmity and the resentment, will hurt than it will help. More than willing to forget, she’s finally willing to forgive. 

“Damara..?”

“Yeah…” She begins, letting that weightless feeling settle deeper. Her heart lurches in her chest for a moment, but it throbs. It beats with stunning clarity in her ears as she takes in the party properly. Her peers are celebrating the end of the summer and ringing in the new school year. Her friends are laying to rest old ghosts and making new memories. The world around her, the light, the laughter, washes over her, and she can’t help but lose herself in the moment. For one perfect instant, her adolescence is everything it should be - passed in the company of friends, without worry, without fear, beneath an early summer evening sky. And when her next words pass her lips, they aren’t a half truth, like they’ve been for the past few months. She means them from the bottom of her heart, and she smiles.

“Yeah, I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that concludes the first 'song' of the Concrete Angels EP's. Gold stars to anyone who can puzzle out what song the chapter titles are from.

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all know the drill. Kudos are appreciated, comments even more so.
> 
> Happy reading :)


End file.
